


Starting at the End

by roqueamadi



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Christmas fic, Found Family, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Trans Male Character, genderswapped character, team of misfits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-09-28 12:29:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17183012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roqueamadi/pseuds/roqueamadi
Summary: Post-season 7. Jaime is assigned to a remote outpost with a bunch of other misfits, all sent away for different reasons. Gradually he learns how each person got there, and finds a place he might be able to belong.





	1. Part One

 

Jaime craned his neck to look up at the drawbridge as it groaned and slowly descended. His horse was normally flighty, but even she was too weary to react to the loud noise.

The place was little more than a watchtower and some low buildings, all clinging to the cliff face. There was no need for a moat; the drawbridge lowered itself over the edge of a sheer drop into a crevasse. When it finally met the ground, Jaime urged his horse across, making sure to not look over the edge. His stomach twisted with nervousness regardless; he was about to meet Bran Stark for the first time since he’d tried to kill him.

Inside the gate, an old woman was waiting for him.

“Jaime Lannister,” she said, before he even dismounted. He pulled off the scarf that had been wrapped around his head and slid off the horse, but she had already turned away to crank the lever. Jaime didn’t bother trying to speak again until the screeching of the gears ended and the drawbridge sealed back up with a solid thud.

“I have a letter from Queen Daenerys,” Jaime said, reaching inside his cloak.

“No need,” the woman cut in. She marched off, and Jaime grabbed the reins to hurry after her, as she shot over her shoulder, “You’re expected.”

The buildings—a smithy and some storage houses—were set around a small courtyard, covered in fresh snow. To their left were stables. The woman led him there first.

“The boy will take your horse,” she said. On cue, a short figure in rough clothes emerged from inside, taking the reins from him. The woman jerked her chin at him and he hurried after her, back across the courtyard, to the doorway at the base of the tower, the main building in the small enclave.

Jaime expected a draughty, cold interior; perhaps some murder holes and a meager guard station. But it wasn’t what he expected at all. Instead, the heavy front door revealed a warm kitchen with a roaring hearth, sturdy chairs tucked around a dining table, and the sound and scent of meat sizzling through another doorway to the left. When the smell hit him, Jaime’s mouth broke into water so fast that it almost escaped his lips. He quickly swallowed hard, and followed the woman up a narrow curving staircase. He caught glimpses of the areas beyond as they climbed each flight of stairs, all the way to the top: a cozy parlour; a hallway with open doorways into sleeping quarters, with comfortable-looking beds piled with blankets. Jaime hadn't expected this at all from a supply outpost.

At the top floor, he followed the woman across the hallway to a door at the end. She paused and knocked. Jaime felt another surge of adrenaline, his stomach twisting, enough that for a moment he felt slightly dizzy. Then the woman was opening the door; light from the window opposite blinded him for a moment, the view to the setting sun, as he walked through the doorway. He came to a halt inside, and his vision cleared, and he saw him: Bran Stark, sitting in a wheeled chair. He was almost a man grown.

Jaime could see little of the curious boy in that face. Instead, he found himself levelled with a steely, almost inhuman, gaze.

“Jaime Lannister, m’lord,” the woman introduced him.

“I was sent by the Queen,” Jaime said. “She’s ordered me stationed here.” He reached once again for the letter, but Bran held up a hand.

“I know,” he said, his voice unemotional.

Jaime swallowed hard. “Lord Stark,” he started, his voice sounding odd in his own ears. “The last time we met, I… I want you to know that I—”

“I know what you’re going to say,” Bran cut him off. “I know everything you’re going to say.”

He _knew_? Jaime felt the slight dizziness again. If he knew, how was Jaime still alive? How—

“There’s no need to say any of it. Anything anyone wants to say to me, I already know.”

He looked to the old woman. “He doesn’t understand,” he said, somewhat dismissively. “But he will learn.”

“They all do eventually,” she nodded. She looked Jaime pointedly up and down. “So,” she said sharply. “Everyone here works. What can you do?”

Jaime hesitated. “Erm—”

“Can you cook?” she cut in.

“No.”

“Can you keep books?”

Jaime’s gaze dropped to the floor. “No.”

The woman sighed. “Well, can you do physical work?”

Jaime lifted his golden hand; it was covered by a glove for some meager disguise on his journey here, but he supposed it was no secret to these people. “Not really.”

The woman threw her hands up in disgust.

Bran cut in. “There will be something you can do. For now, help the others in their daily tasks as best you can.”

Jaime bowed his head. Without any further words, the woman hustled him back out into the hallway, closing the door behind her.

“You make sure you do as you’re told, now,” she chided Jaime as they started back down the curving staircase. “If you don’t, he’ll know.”

Two flights down, she led him through the sleeping quarters. Inside were two beds. The one on the right had tousled blankets and spare clothes hanging over the sides, and the one on the left was neat and unused.

“There,” she said, nodding to the spare bed. “The stable boy’ll bring your things later. Wait here for now; your roommate will be back soon, he can show you around. Dinner in one hour.”

“I see.” Jaime nodded. Without further discussion, she left the room.

Jaime looked around. It was a small room, with a small fireplace, a basin, a window looking across the forest he’d just traversed today, and only about two feet of space between the beds; but it was warm, and as he sunk down on the bed to wait, the mattress felt like the softest thing in the world after weeks of sleeping on the ground.

He looked up as footsteps came up the stairs and down the short hall. His roommate, he presumed. When the man appeared in the doorway, Jaime’s jaw dropped.

_“Jaime?”_

“Bronn!”

Jaime only had two seconds glimpse of Bronn before his vision was obscured as the other man engulfed him in a rough embrace, lifting him half to standing. Jaime got his feet under him after several seconds and managed to hug Bronn back, awkwardly.

“I thought you were fuckin’ dead,” Bronn exclaimed, finally stepping back. “What are you doing here? How’d you get here? Fuck, it’s good to see you.”

Jaime struggled to get his voice to work to answer. Bronn was still grasping him by his upper arms and Jaime felt almost overwhelmed by the relief of meeting a friendly face. Perhaps his time in exile wouldn’t be so bad after all.

“Cersei lied,” he finally said. “She never intended to send the armies north. When I found out, I left. I came north to warn them that their help wasn’t coming. Daenerys pardoned me as a reward, but she also didn’t want me within sight. So, she sent me here.”

Bronn blinked at him for a moment before speaking. “So— You left your sister?”

Jaime dropped his gaze to Bronn’s tunic, and nodded. Bronn’s grip tightened slightly on his arms, but he didn’t say anything further. Jaime hurried on. “And you? You disappeared after the dragon pit meeting. I thought you might have gone with the northerners, but I wasn’t sure.”

“Aye,” Bronn said, releasing Jaime finally and collapsing down onto his bed. Jaime sat opposite him. “Thought it was the best move, in the end. Your sister had my scent, y’know.”

Jaime nodded. “I’d hoped you might come with me. Though I’m sure you travelled in much higher luxury.”

“That I can be certain of,” Bronn grinned, relaxing back on one elbow. “Caught a ride on their ship. Sat on my arse and did nothing for a few weeks, it was great.”

Jaime laughed with him. The sound was strange in his ears. He couldn’t clearly identify the last time he’d laughed, but it had probably been the last time he’d been with Bronn.

He opened his mouth to say something— he wasn’t sure what. ‘I missed you’? That was what he wanted to say, but as usual with anything remotely emotional, the words stuck in his throat.

“C’mon,” Bronn said, rolling to his feet and slapping Jaime on the thigh. “Dinner’ll be up in a minute. You need a wash? I’ll show you the baths.”

 

Jaime was delighted to learn there was a hotspring under the tower, with baths somewhat similar to Harrenhal’s. Bronn left him with a towel and some of his own spare clothes, and Jaime struggled to keep to time, reluctantly pulling himself out fifteen minutes later when the dinner bell sounded from upstairs in the kitchen. He pulled on Bronn’s spare breeches and tunic—the tunic a little loose around his chest but wonderfully clean and smelling slightly of Bronn, familiar and comfortable, and went up the stairs to the ground floor again.

Others were gathering at the dining table, a patchwork of different types of people, and they all quietened when he emerged from the stairwell, looking him over. Jaime paused there, unsure what to say, then Bronn appeared at his side, clapping him on the shoulder.

“This is Jaime,” he announced to the room. “If anyone didn’t know,” he added. Jaime glanced around the others, and almost jerked in surprise when he met a pair of familiar eyes—it was the Hound. The man nodded slightly in greeting. Bronn pulled Jaime by his elbow over to the table and they sat next to each other.

The Hound—Sandor—sat opposite. Jaime had seen him at the dragon pit, of course, and even then he’d thought he looked different. He seemed freer, somehow. His hair was more neat than he used to keep it. His clothes seemed to fit him better. His scars even seemed not as bad as he remembered, from years before.

An older man of noble bearing carried a few dishes out from the kitchen and set them on the table. Jaime sat silently while the others around the table recovered from their shock of seeing a newcomer and started to talk amongst themselves again. He glanced around. Aside from Sandor, there was Bran—someone must have carried him downstairs—the old woman who had let him in, and two younger women who looked to be related. The main door opened and the stableboy hurried in from the cold. More footsteps approached down the stairs behind him and a chair scraped as someone else arrived at the table. Jaime looked around, and then almost fell off his chair.

“Tyrion?” he exclaimed.

His brother—it was unmistakably him, though his hair was long and he was messily unshaven—looked around at him.

“Yes, hello, brother,” he said dully. Jaime steeled himself. They had held their truce long enough to do what had to be done, in arranging the dragon pit meeting, but that didn’t mean their problems were resolved. Bronn was sitting between Tyrion and Jaime, and Jaime thought he noticed Bronn’s body stiffen, as though he was ready to break up a fight.

“What did you do to end up here?” Jaime asked.

Tyrion narrowed his eyes at him, and drew breath to reply loudly, but then a deep voice cut in.

“That’s not a polite question round here.” Jaime looked back across the table to Sandor, who was watching the two of them boredly. “No one comes here by choice, Kingslayer.”

Jaime couldn’t help the flinch that went through him at that name—he was becoming less tolerant of it recently—but before he could respond Bronn clamped a hand on his knee, and Jaime stilled.

The last dish was set on the table and the cook sat down on one end. All the chairs were now filled. Without further ado, everyone set in to serve themselves.

 

Jaime lay staring at the ceiling. A shaft of moonlight was filtering through the curtains, illuminating a small crack in the plaster. It was well before dawn.

He’d woken with a jolt a few moments before, and was waiting for his racing heart to calm down. He’d suffered from nightmares for most of his adult life, but recently they seemed to be getting worse. He’d dreamed he’d been running, fleeing in terror, and he’d woken with a gasp, sitting straight up and looking around in momentary confusion about where he was. For once, he was warm and comfortable. The fire had died down in the grate. Bronn was snoring gently in the other bed just to his left.

After dinner, he’d gone straight to bed. He’d been exhausted. The stable boy had at some point left his saddlebags by their door, but all his spare clothes were filthy, so Bronn had lent him more clothes for sleeping.

“ _Ridiculous,_ ” Jaime whispered to himself. Stupid to be having nightmares still, now. Fair enough on the journey here, camping in the forest and expecting to wake up surrounded by wolves, or worse. Now he was safe, his journey was over.

He rolled over and tried to go back to sleep.

 

When he woke in the morning, Bronn was gone. He washed his face in the bowl of water, and pulled on Bronn’s clothes from last night.

Downstairs, all was quiet. There were used dishes on the dining table. He stood for a moment looking around, wondering what the time was, then the cook emerged from the kitchen.

“You’re awake,” he said dryly. “Mind you don’t make a habit of sleeping late. Bran can tell when you’re not pulling your weight.”

“I don’t usually,” Jaime said, rubbing his face. “What time is it?”

“Past nine,” the man replied. He disappeared into the kitchen for a moment, and returned with a bowl covered with a cloth. “I tried to keep it warm for you.” He removed the cloth and sat it on the table. It was porridge.

“Thank you,” Jaime said awkwardly, sitting and reaching for a spoon.

“Suppose you haven’t had anything hot for a while,” the man said, moving around the table to pick up the dirty dishes.

“No,” Jaime said. Now that light was coming through the windows, he looked at the man more closely. “Have we met?” he asked suddenly.

“At the dragon pit, if you could call that a meeting,” the man replied evenly.

Jaime remembered. “Ser Jorah,” he said. “I didn’t recognise you.”

He certainly looked different, wearing an apron instead of armour, holding a pile of dirty plates instead of a sword.

“How did you—” Jaime stopped himself. “No, I’m not supposed to ask.”

Jorah set the plates down and pulled up his right tunic sleeve, holding it up for Jaime to see. There was an angry scar running across the inside of his bicep and elbow, still fairly fresh. Jaime winced just to look at it.

“Can’t fight,” Jorah said, his voice only slightly bitter. “Can’t even straighten my arm,” he added, demonstrating.

“Other men can fight, though,” Jaime reasoned. “I thought the Queen valued your counsel?”

Jorah picked up the dishes again. “Well, my arm is only part of the reason.”

He disappeared into the kitchen and Jaime stared after him. He didn’t dare ask the rest of the reason, and Jorah seemed to have finished talking for now. He finished off his porridge, and then brought the plate into the kitchen where Jorah was standing with sleeves rolled up, scrubbing the plates.

Jaime swallowed. “Can I help?” he asked, pushing down the instincts ingrained in him, which said that helping with this sort of work was not what he was bred for—not that Jorah was either, he supposed.

“No,” Jorah said with half an amused smile. “Go try the stables, perhaps.”

Jaime nodded and made a quick retreat. He pulled on the heavy coat he’d worn on the way here, his gloves (both—he liked how wearing gloves made both his hands look the same) and wrapped his scarf around his head before venturing out into the icy cold air.

 

The sound of hammering was ringing out from the smithy. He crossed the courtyard to the stables, where the heavy doors were open only a crack, and slipped inside. It was marginally warmer compared to outside. His own mare snorted and lifted her head from a feed bucket as he appeared, and he took a moment to pat her, looking around at the other horses in stalls. He could hear voices from another room. He left his mare, starting towards the doorway to his right, and the next horse along, a huge stallion, jolted and tossed his head as Jaime passed.

He stepped through the door and the conversation abruptly stopped. Inside was a tack room, with piles of damaged saddles, bridles and other leather stacked on one wall. The old woman he’d met yesterday was sitting by the window re-sewing a saddle flap. Behind her, the stable boy, Sandor and Tyrion stood where they’d been chatting.

Tyrion snapped closed the ledger he’d been reading. “I’ll speak to you later,” he said to the others, and walked past Jaime and out the door without looking at him. Jaime repressed a growl of annoyance and looked up at the other two.

“I just came to see if I can help,” he said.

“Bran told you to help out?” the stable boy asked. Jaime realised he hadn’t heard him speak yet, and his voice sounded odd.

“Yes,” he replied.

“Can you sew?” the boy asked.

Jaime tapped his false hand. “No.”

The boy sighed. “Well, a new cart is due tomorrow and we have to get more repairs finished before they arrive. Don’t suppose you’ll be any use in the smithy, either.”

Jaime hadn’t been expecting a telling-off from a twelve-year-old. But then… he looked at the boy more closely. Something about his voice sounded familiar. And something about his face, too. In fact, he didn’t really look like a twelve-year-old boy. He looked more like…

“Wait,” he said slowly. “Are you…” he glanced at Sandor. “Is he…” he hesitated to say it. It sounded ridiculous. He shook his head quickly. “It’s just, you remind me very much of Arya Stark.”

The boy scowled, and stalked off much as Tyrion had done before. Jaime stared after him in confusion, then turned back to Sandor, who snorted at his expression.

“He doesn’t like being called that,” he chuckled. “You’ll get a rake thrown at your head if you’re not careful, Kingslayer.”

“Wait— but— he? Is he a… he? Because…”

“He used to be Arya Stark, you’re right. But now he _is_ a he, and he’s called Arry.”

“But…” Jaime squinted. “How?”

“Don’t worry your head too much about it, Kingslayer.”

“But she’s a girl.”

“Don’t call me that!” Arya’s voice sounded out from the next room.

“He doesn’t like being called that,” Sandor repeated.

“Well, I don’t like being called Kingslayer, but I can’t stop that either,” Jaime said, irritably.

Sandor rolled his eyes. “If you stop calling him a girl, I’ll stop calling you Kingslayer. How about that?”

Jaime blinked. “I… Well, alright.”

 

Jaime followed Sandor back out of the stables, noticing his limp as they crossed the courtyard to the smithy.

“Well, I don’t need to ask why you’re here,” he said. Sandor glanced at him to see what he meant. Jaime nodded at his leg. “How did you do that?”

“Wights,” Sandor said shortly. “A big one. Dunno how I’m still here.”

“It’s not just his leg,” a voice sounded out as he followed Sandor, ducking his head under the open doorway into the smithy. Jaime looked around, and one of the two sisters had spoken. Both were standing over the forge, their faces soot-blackened.

“You’re the smiths here?” Jaime asked before he could stop himself.

“Aye,” the woman shot back. “What, haven’t you ever met a woman smithy before?”

“Can’t say that I have,” Jaime replied.

“I’m Marta, and that’s my sister Bes.”

“You’re not the smithies, though,” Sandor put in with a smug grin, lowering himself into a chair. “That was your father.”

“Aye, but he’s not here, is he?” Marta shot back. “Anyway,” she looked back to Jaime. “It’s not just his leg. He went and got his lung punctured as well, so he can’t last long doing anything strenuous. He can’t breathe right.”

“I told him it was rude to ask about how people got here,” Sandor grumbled.

“Well, I don’t want anyone expecting you to do anything strenuous just because you’re big,” she said, with some affection. Sandor didn’t reply, and Jaime caught a glance between the two of them.

“Hammer,” Bes suddenly barked, and Sandor reached for the toolbox beside him, passing it over as directed.

“I was wondering,” Jaime said, raising his voice over the hammering as it started up again, “if I can help at all in here.”

Marta shook her head, wiping her forehead with her palm and smearing more soot over it. “Any more in here and they’ll just get in the way. Did you try Jorah?”

“He doesn’t want help either,” Jaime replied glumly.

Everyone suddenly froze as a scream came from out in the courtyard, then a crash. Jaime ran outside, the others close behind him, in time to see the big stallion canter across the courtyard, kicking out behind him angrily as he ran.

Arya—Arry—came running after him, a hand clasped tightly to her— _his_ —face. Blood was running from between his fingers.

Jaime was closest. He ran over to her— _him_ , grabbing his arm to stop him. “Are you alright?” he asked urgently, trying to see the wound.

Arry pushed him away. “He kicked me. It was my fault, I startled him—he’s going to fall off the cliff!”

From what Jaime could tell, it was just a cut to the cheek. He followed where Arry was pointing. The horse had disappeared between the storehouse and the smithy, but Jaime wasn’t sure what he meant by the cliff.

Marta arrived with a towel to hold to Arry’s face, and Jaime ran after the horse, behind the buildings. Sure enough, there was a clearing there, where in summer there would be grass. To the right, the wall at the base of the tower ended where it clung to the cliff, and beyond that, the ground just sloped sharply away into the crevasse. This was why this place was impenetrable. The stallion pigrooted again as Jaime appeared, dancing around the clearing, close to the edge—too close.

As the horse turned away, Jaime ran behind him, putting himself between the horse and the cliff. He planted his feet on the sloping ground and couldn’t resist a glance backwards—a glance that made his balls contract unpleasantly. This was not a good position to be in. But if he could scare the horse back towards the buildings, the others could possibly grab him…

The two smithy women, Sandor and Arry appeared through the buildings.

“Careful!” Marta yelled out, “You’ll fall!”

“He’ll push you over the edge!” Arry added urgently. “He's dangerous!” As if on cue, the stallion put on a burst of speed towards Jaime again, rushing at him. Jaime knew he couldn’t afford to step backwards. He stood his ground, and only flinched when he mad thing halted right in front of him and reared, his hooves swiping so close they blew wind over Jaime’s face.

When he set his hooves down again, Jaime threw his left hand out, grabbing the halter. The horse snorted, tried to shake him off, and Jaime saw his muscles tensing, ready to rear again—and he stepped closer.

“Calm,” he said firmly, quietly, pulling the horse’s face close to his, flattening his palm on the sweaty hair of its jaw. Jaime stood still, forcing his posture to be relaxed, his movements calm, his gaze firm and unafraid. The stallion snorted heavily, blowing moisture over Jaime’s face. He didn’t flinch.

“Calm down, boy,” Jaime said softly. “I know you don’t want to be here. It’s boring and it’s cold. No one wants to be here. But you know—it’s not all bad.” He kept talking, saying whatever came into his head. Horses liked calm talking. Jaime had learned that from the age of five. “There’s food, and it’s warm inside. There’s a bed to sleep on. It’s safe. No wolves. Those are good things, right?”

He was very aware of his own heart racing and his desperation to get away from the edge of the cliff, but he kept going. The stallion was still. He was breathing heavily, but his ears were cocked forward, listening to Jaime’s voice. Jaime moved his hand slowly, calmly, stroking over the horse’s jaw and then over his nose. “And hopefully one day soon, winter will be over. Then there’ll be grass and sunlight again. That’s worth looking forward to, right? Better than falling over this cliff, anyway.”

He took a deep breath. Carefully wrapped his fingers around the halter again.

“Come on, then,” he said, and calmly walked forward, tugging the halter gently. To his relief, the stallion followed quietly.

Arry was ready with a lead rope, clipping it on as soon as Jaime reached them.

“You saved him,” he said sincerely to Jaime. “Thank you.”

Jaime nodded, suddenly uncomfortable. “Perhaps I can assist you with the horses, then?”

Arry nodded firmly. “I think you’ll be good at that job.”

He led the stallion back to the stables. Sandor clapped Jaime on the shoulder. “Impressive, Lannister. Wouldn’t have thought you’d know how to handle a real horse. Suppose you’re not entirely useless, then.”

“That’s good to hear,” Jaime said wryly, but in reality a clenching knot in his stomach had just loosened slightly. Perhaps he wouldn’t be thrown out after all.

 

“Jaime, wake up!”

The dream dissolved and Jaime opened his eyes. He was in bed, and his skin was clammy with sweat. A candle was lit on the bedside table and Bronn was sitting on the edge of his bed, his hands on both Jaime’s shoulders.

Jaime blinked up at him and Bronn quickly withdrew his hands.

“I was shaking you,” he said, awkwardly. “You wouldn’t wake up.”

Jaime sat up, wiping at his face. Sweat was dripping down his neck. “I… I was dreaming…”

“You sure were,” Bronn muttered. He stood enough to swing around to sit on the edge of his own bed, but he didn’t lie back down. “Don’t remember you getting nightmares this bad, back in the day.”

Jaime nodded, scrubbing his face. “They’re worse, recently,” he said.

Bronn nodded, watching him for a moment. “Hey, heard you saved a horse today. Everyone’s all impressed.”

Jaime glanced over at him, expecting sarcasm, but instead Bronn was smiling softly. The second he met his eyes, Jaime felt heat rush to his face. He pushed the blankets off and got to his feet, walking down to the basin for a cup of water.

“Where were you today?” he asked, hoping to change the subject.

“Hunting,” Bronn said. “I go every few days. Got a deer, this time. That’ll last us a while.”

Jaime nodded. He gulped down the water.

“You want a clean tunic?” Bronn asked, reaching for a bag under his bed. “Think I have one here.”

Jaime nodded belatedly and pulled his sweaty tunic off. He dropped it on the floor and stood bare-chested as Bronn took his time picking a clean one, and then stood to pass it to Jaime. He didn’t let him take it straight away though, pausing to glance over Jaime’s skin in the candlelight. His gaze paused on Jaime’s side, his hand reaching out to it.

“Fuck, Jaime,” he frowned. “What’d you do here? You sure it isn’t infected?”

Jaime felt his heart rate pick up again as Bronn brushed his fingers over the wound there. It wasn’t infected, it was fine, it was almost healed. Jaime had stumbled early in his journey, during those first few days when he was practically sleeping on his feet, and badly grazed his side on the rocks as he’d tumbled down a slope.

“It’s fine,” Jaime said, his voice noticeably breathless. “Just a graze.”

Bronn drew back with a slight smirk, and passed Jaime the tunic.

 

In the morning, Jaime woke at the same time as Bronn and they went down to breakfast together. Sandor and Arry were sitting at the table already.

“Morning,” Arry mumbled sleepily in Jaime’s direction.

“Morning Bronn, Jaime,” Jorah said, placing bowls of porridge down in front of them.

Jaime had expected more scorn, somehow—he always expected that. In King’s Landing and in Winterfell it had been the same, his entire adult life. Now he’d done something so minor as saving a horse and he was suddenly accepted?

Arry waited for him to finish his breakfast and they headed out to the stables together.

“I try to lunge them all every day,” he explained to Jaime. “D’you think you can do that with your hand?”

“I think so,” Jaime nodded.

“I’ll get the lead rope.”

Jaime saw a halter on a hook and took it down, maneuvering it over the head of the first horse on the left.

He glanced up as the old woman appeared in the doorway.

“Morning,” she nodded at him.

“Morning,” Jaime replied. “I don’t think I caught your name, before…”

“Alet,” she replied. “Sorry, I’m not used to new people. Though there’ve been quite a few lately, you’d think I’d learn.” She gave a small smile that seemed to crack her face, and Jaime once again marvelled at this idea of being treated like a regular person, not a dishonourable traitor.

“Is Arry about?” she asked.

“I think he just went down to the tack room.”

“I’m here,” Arry called out, walking back along the stalls towards them. She passed Jaime the lead rope and turned to Alet. They started a discussion about the horse feed, and Jaime clipped the rope on the bay to lead him out into the courtyard.

He was just sorting out how best to hold the rope when Arry came out to stand beside him, his arms crossed tight over his chest. Jaime glanced down at him.

“Is everything alright?” he asked, letting the horse tug at the rope so he could lower his head to nudge at the snowy ground.

Arry stared stiffly ahead. “I just wanted to thank you.”

Jaime raised an eyebrow. “For yesterday?”

“No, I already thanked you for that. I mean—just now. You called me ‘he’.”

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“Yes. It’s just, most people don’t do it. Or it takes them a long time to get used to it.”

Jaime nodded slowly, and tugged the rope back, waving his right arm towards the horse’s flank to get him moving. The bay started up in a circle around them with little complaint, and Arry moved with Jaime as they turned a slow circle with the rope.

“How did you realise you were better suited as a boy?” Jaime asked, hoping he wasn’t asking something too personal.

Arry sighed. “I didn’t want to at first. I had to pretend to be a boy for a long time, just to survive. I didn’t enjoy it at the time. But, more things happened, and after a while I started to miss it. Then I tried it out again one day, just to see what it was like… and it felt right. I felt like me, in a way I hadn’t for a long time.”

“Is that why you came out here?” Jaime asked, loosening his grip enough to feed more rope out, making the circle wider. Arry scuffed his feet as he walked in a smaller circle with Jaime.

“No,” Arry said. He took a deep breath. “I trained as a… a kind of assassin. I returned to my sister and I was helping her. I killed a lot of people, and monsters. I got so used to it that it felt normal. Too normal. And then I… I took it too far.”

He stopped, and Jaime waited, expecting more. But Arry just cleared his throat and shook his head. “I’ll go sweep the stalls out,” he said, and turned back for the stable.

 

Jaime was almost done with the seventh and final horse when Sandor stepped out of the smithy and called him over. Jaime pulled the horse to a halt and led him across the courtyard.

Sandor had two cups of hot tea, and he passed one to Jaime. Jaime tied the leadrope loosely around the nearest pole, and took the cup.

“From Marta,” Sandor explained.

Jaime was so surprised at this, and that it was the Hound, of all people, giving him the tea, that he momentarily blanked on what to say.

“Thank you,” he stumbled out, after a few awkward seconds. He wasn’t used to those words; they sounded odd in his own voice.

“How do you like it here, so far?” Sandor asked, leaning on the opposite pole.

Jaime shifted his grip on the mug handle by carefully resting the base of the cup on his right forearm.

“It’s not so bad,” he said. “Not what I was expecting.”

Sandor snorted. “Me neither. It was only Tyrion and Jorah moping around when I arrived, aside from the girls. Things brightened up a bit when Arry arrived with Bran, though. Not that the little Lord’s much to talk to.”

Jaime couldn’t help wincing. Any thought of Bran made him wince, and he tried not to confront those thoughts at all. “I’d heard rumours about him, but I didn’t think they would be true.”

Sandor nodded. “When I first arrived, he told me not to eat the leftover chicken, and he also told me I’d ignore him. Next day, I was hungry, I went into the kitchen, and there was the chicken. I thought fuck it, what would that little bugger know? Three hours later I was spilling my gut. That taught me. Listen to what he says, because he’s right about fuckin’ everything.”

Sandor laughed wryly, and Jaime couldn’t help smiling.

“Lord Bran’s only here so he’s kept safe, though,” Jaime said, uncertainly. “He didn’t… _do_ anything, like the rest of us, did he?”

“No, he’s just here because it’s safer than Winterfell. He gets a lot of ravens, and sends them back with big fat scrolls. His sister, I suppose, or perhaps his brother. Now _there’s_ a lucky bastard, Tyrion and Jorah would agree.”

Jaime frowned at Sandor, who was watching Jaime over the rim of his mug as he sipped.

“What’s Jon Snow got that’s so lucky?”

Sandor just lifted his eyebrows and Jaime said the first thing that came into his head.

“Is he fucking the Queen?”

Sandor didn’t reply, just smirked, and Jaime frowned down at his own tea. “And Tyrion and Jorah… she sent them away because… because they were jealous? Both of them?”

“I didn’t say that,” Sandor said smugly.

Jaime ignored him, mulling over this new information for a moment. “I’m not really surprised about Tyrion. He has a tendency to fall in love with any woman who gives him the slightest bit of attention.”

“Mind you don’t say that to his face, Lannister.”

“I doubt I’ll be saying anything to his face. I don’t think we’re on speaking terms.”

“This is a small outpost,” Sandor replied. “You’ll have to talk sooner or later.”

Jaime scowled at that. “And Bronn? He didn’t fall in love with the Queen as well, did he?” Jaime aimed for flippancy, but it didn’t quite come out like that.

“Why don’t you ask him?” Sandor smirked.

Jaime rolled his eyes. “Because someone told me that was an impolite question.”

“Well, not the Queen, but something similar. He was fucking the wrong person’s spouse. That’s why he got booted out.”

“That doesn’t surprise me either. Bronn always used to have a thing for other men’s wives.”

Sandor didn’t comment.

 

The horses were all lunged, brushed and fed, and the stalls were clean. Arry headed back inside and Jaime was about to follow him, when he heard his name called. He looked around in confusion for a moment; no one was in the courtyard; then he looked up.

Bronn was standing on the edge of the roof of the stables. A ladder was resting near Jaime.

“You done for the day?” Bronn asked.

“Yes. What are you doing up there?”

“Just finished some repairs. Come up here, I want to show you something.”

Frowning, Jaime approached the ladder. Climbing was something that had become almost impossible since his hand. He looked up at Bronn uncertainly.

Bronn knelt on the edge of the roof and gripped the top of the ladder firmly. “C’mon.”

Jaime sighed, and started up the ladder. He went slowly, sliding his left hand up the side as he went, and Bronn grabbed his right upper arm as he neared the top and hauled him the rest of the way.

“Come this way. Walk on the studs.”

Jaime followed Bronn’s footsteps carefully, sticking to the studs in the roof that indicated the position of the beam beneath, across to the other side.

Bronn halted, and Jaime stopped.

“Look,” Bronn prompted. Jaime looked up from his feet and followed Bronn’s arm as he waved it at the view. Jaime’s eyes widened. From this height, the forest stretched out before them. The sun wasn’t far from setting, and the mountains to the north-west were gaining a golden tinge.

“Pretty view, eh?” Bronn said, satisfied at Jaime’s expression. “And look, I found a few things a while ago—thought now was a good time to break ‘em out.”

Jaime looked down at the corner of the tower wall. Bronn lowered himself down to sit there, where he had a wineskin and some wrapped cheese.

Jaime sat down next to him. “Why is now a good time?” he asked, confused. Bronn pulled the cork out of the wine.

“To celebrate your arrival,” Bronn said, his voice sincere but with a wry grin. He took a swig of the wine and then passed it to Jaime.

Jaime put it to his lips. He hadn’t even tasted wine in months. He took a tentative sip and his eyes widened.

“It’s good,” he said, and sipped more.

Bronn broke off some of the cheese and leaned back against the wall.

“How’d you go with the horses?”

“Good. I like horses. More than most people, to be honest.”

Bronn laughed. “That’s true. Shame you lost that one of yours in the fight with the dragon. You’d had him for ages.”

Jaime nodded glumly. “Don’t remind me.”

“How did you find one to take north? You hadn’t got a replacement yet, last I remember.”

Jaime glanced down at the wine skin in his hand. “I stole one.”

“You _stole_ one?” Bronn exclaimed. “Who from?”

“Don’t know,” Jaime replied. “I didn’t have much time to think about it.”

Bronn nodded, then he sat forward, studying Jaime more closely. “So—you spoke to Bran, when you arrived here?”

“Yes,” Jaime replied, uncomfortably.

“How’d _that_ go?”

So Bronn hadn’t forgotten. Jaime had told him one time—had shouted it, actually, in the middle of an argument, in some perverse attempt to prove to Bronn how terrible a person he truly was. Bronn had accepted that information without flinching, and his response had stuck sharply in Jaime’s memory ever since. _“If you were as terrible a person as you want me to think, you wouldn’t still be feeling guilty about it.”_

Jaime sighed. “It was fine. I tried to apologise. He cut me off before I could say anything, and said that… whatever I wanted to say, he already knew, so there was no point saying it. I wasn’t expecting forgiveness, or anything, but I don’t know… Even a _punishment_ would have felt more… right.”

Bronn shrugged. “He’s always saying stuff like, whatever happened had to have happened to get every person to this point in history, and this is the only correct path, therefore everything that happened in the past was the right thing? I dunno, I can’t follow him most of the time.”  
Jaime nodded glumly, and reached for the cheese.

“You know,” Bronn said, leaning back. “I’m impressed—I didn’t think you’d ever leave your sister.”

“Impressed?”

“Yeah.”

“So you think…” Jaime heistated. “You think it was the right thing?”

“I’m here too, ain’t I?” Bronn pointed out. “But for you—even more so, I reckon. You did an honourable thing. Those other commanders will all regret not following you.”

“I didn’t ask them to. I couldn’t risk telling anyone what I was doing.”

“Well, no, but it was obvious, wasn’t it?”

“After I left, I suppose it would have been. I rode for three days and nights without stopping. I ran beside the horse half the time so she wouldn’t get exhausted. I knew I needed distance, and fast.” He cleared his throat. “It was difficult.”

“Doesn’t sound like much fun,” Bronn agreed. “Should’ve joined the rest of us on the boat.”

“You should’ve told me you were leaving,” Jaime shot back. He intended it to be teasing, but to his surprise, Bronn’s face fell slightly.

“Yeah, I should’ve.”

“There was no time,” Jaime said quickly. “We both had to act quickly.”

“Aye. I think my head is much better looking not on a spike,” Bronn said, taking another sip of wine.

Jaime snorted.

They chatted as they watched the sun go down. The wine relaxed all of Jaime’s muscles, and warmed him from the inside out. He felt relaxed and happy—he had _missed_ Bronn. He was possibly the only person he’d ever considered a friend in his life.

When the light was mostly gone, and Bronn was barely more than a shadow next to him, and the wine had taken its full effect, Jaime said so. He wasn’t exactly sure what he said, he only knew that Bronn turned to look at him with some surprise, and that he felt instantly flooded with embarrassment, waiting for laughter. But it didn’t come. Instead, a hand clapped warmly to his shoulder, squeezing affectionately. “I missed you too,” Bronn replied, sincerely. Then, more lightly, “What you think we’re celebrating for, princess?”

Jaime huffed a laugh. Bronn had called him that before, in the past. It was teasing but also affectionate. He’d never in front of anyone else, which made Jaime feel like it was somehow special. He was glad Bronn hadn’t forgotten, though he knew it was a silly thing to cherish.

When it was getting close to dinner time, they climbed back down.

“It’s not so bad, here,” Jaime said, going extra slowly on the ladder given his slightly unsteady legs. “And luckily there are no wives for you to lead astray, so you won’t get kicked out.”

There was no immediate response. Jaime reached the ground and frowned up at Bronn as he climbed down after him.

“Whose wife?” Bronn asked, confused.

Jaime hesitated. “Sandor said you got sent here because you… fucked the wrong person's wife.”

“Did he?” Bronn frowned, reaching the ground.

“Well,” Jaime hesitated. “Spouse, I think he said.”

“Oh,” Bronn said, and shot Jaime a sly grin. “Well, yeah. Only it weren’t the wife.”

He turned for the door.

Jaime remained frozen to the spot, watching him go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was hoping to get this out before Christmas. Anyway, here's part one. It's not very edited, so please let me know if you spot any typos or continuity issues! Also let me know what you think generally. Cheers!


	2. Part Two

Bronn disappeared inside, and Jaime stood in the dark, cold courtyard, stuck in a cycle of thoughts.

He jumped when someone spoke just behind him.

“Is it really that shocking?”

Jaime spun, and saw Jorah emerging from the storeroom beside the stables, a sack of grain over his shoulder.

“Erm, pardon?” Jaime asked, confused, as Jorah closed the door behind him.

“I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation,” Jorah said, nodding at the door where Bronn had gone inside. “You were standing there like a stunned mullet. Is it really that shocking?”

“I—” Jaime wasn’t sure what to say. “No, that’s not the reason.”

Jorah frowned disapprovingly at him. “You know, it’s considered fairly normal in certain parts of Essos. No one cares if you love a woman or a man, it doesn’t make any difference to them.”

“No, I— I’m not—”

“This is one thing I didn’t miss about Westeros. You shouldn’t think less of your friend just because he told you that about himself—”

“Ser Jorah,” Jaime cut in, loudly. “I’m the same.” 

Jorah stopped talking, taken off guard. 

“I was just shocked that he never told me before,” Jaime added.

Jorah took several seconds to process this. “Then I apologise. I thought—”

“Yes, I know what you thought. That’s why I’ve never told anyone.”

“Well. You should tell Bronn.”

Jaime felt heat rush to his face, despite the cold air. “Oh. Well, I—”

“You just said you were annoyed he never told you. Maybe it’s because he feared how you would react. It’s likely he never suspected you had that in common.”

“Yes, but I—”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

Jaime felt his heart rate speeding up. “Because it would be awkward,” he said, with difficulty. Because admitting that would be coming too close to admitting something else.

“I see,” Jorah said, and Jaime’s heart dropped as he realised that Jorah had just read him like a book. “But you don’t know that. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so awkward,” Jorah suggested gently.

Jaime fixed his gaze on Jorah’s boots. He could feel words coming. He didn’t want to say any more, but he couldn’t stop himself. “I wish he’d told me before!” he said through his teeth. “I’ve never met anyone else I could… But I don’t… I  _ can’t  _ just go and tell him… if he had any interest in me, he would have acted by now. Wouldn’t he?”

He looked up at Jorah, feeling his ears burning, hoping for an answer. Jorah couldn’t hide a small grin. 

“I think you’re going to have to tell him how you feel. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“No, I can’t. You don’t understand, I just… can’t.”

“Perhaps I understand more than you think. Believe me, it’s better to speak up sooner instead of living years in false hope.”

“Unfortunately it’s far too late to avoid that,” Jaime muttered.

Jorah hefted the grain sack over his shoulder and clapped Jaime on the arm. “Well, then. We’d better go inside.”

 

Jaime found it hard to follow the conversation over dinner. He couldn’t stop stealing glances at Bronn. He just couldn’t  _ believe  _ he hadn’t known this, all these years.

He wondered if it was new for Bronn. Jaime had known it about himself since he was a teenager, but perhaps for Bronn it was just a one-off experiment. 

They went to bed after dinner. Lucky for Jaime, Bronn was tired and not chatty. Jaime didn’t think he’d have been able to hold a conversation even if he wanted to. Bronn pulled off his outer layers, dropping them on the floor, and collapsed into bed. Jaime closed the door and stoked the fire, and when he turned back Bronn was already starting to snore. 

He changed into sleeping clothes and lay down.

And then, what felt like about five seconds later, he was lurching awake, drenched in sweat, his heart racing, gasping for air. The dream clung to him, and he tried to fight it off. Several seconds passed before he realised he was actually physically fighting, and Bronn was there, trying to stop his flailing arms. 

“Jaime! Fuck’s sake, wake up!” Bronn growled in his ear, holding him firmly. Jaime went limp as soon as he realised what was going on. 

His face was pressed against Bronn’s shoulder. Bronn softened his grip when Jaime stopped flailing, but he didn’t let go. Jaime opened his eyes, saw the flutter of Bronn’s thin tunic against his own harsh breathing. He felt soaked through with sweat. 

“Ridiculous dreams,” he said, though his voice came out hoarse and unsteady, and Bronn ran a hand down his back soothingly.

“You’re alright now,” he said in Jaime’s ear, and Jaime shivered. 

Bronn drew back. Jaime had to try hard to not grip him tighter. “Clean clothes,” Bronn said, and turned for his bag. Jaime took some steadying breaths, and got to his feet, slightly wobbly, to change when Bronn passed him the clothes. He sank back down on the bed and Bronn paused, frowning at him.

“Is there anything that helps?” he asked.

Jaime shrugged. “It just usually happens when I sleep alone, that’s all.”

Bronn gave him a strange look, and Jaime belatedly realised what he’d said.

“Not that I— I mean—”

Bronn was already pushing at his shoulder. “Move over, then.”

“No, I didn’t mean— It’s not necessary—”

“Let’s just see if it helps, eh? Can’t have you waking me up at all hours every fuckin’ night,” Bronn grumbled, pushing Jaime over the other side of the narrow bed and sliding in next to him. “C’mere.”

He threw an arm loosely over Jaime’s side, his chest to Jaime’s back. Jaime tried to concentrate on breathing. He didn’t know how he was going to sleep like this.

 

However, he did sleep. He woke in the morning feeling the most well-rested he had in months, but Bronn was already gone.

He went about his day with a deliberate attempt to hide his good mood. He was grateful that Jorah didn’t prod him any further as he ate breakfast, and he spent the morning with the horses again while Arry worked cleaning the loft. He was so completely lost in his own thoughts that he didn’t pay adequate attention to the stallion as he was lunging him, and he wrenched Jaime’s right shoulder so hard he knew he’d be feeling it later. Before dinner, he went down to the baths. Sandor was there already, but there were two separate baths in the stone floor, so Jaime set his towel aside and slid into the second one with a sigh. 

“I never used to appreciate baths so much,” Jaime admitted, letting the water soothe his sore shoulder and closing his eyes. 

“I never much liked them, in the south,” Sandor grunted in reply. “Too hot.”

“The north seems to suit you,” Jaime commented. 

“Seems to suit you as well, Lannister. You’ve been getting more and more cheerful ever since you arrived. It’s getting irritating.”

Jaime shrugged. “It’s nice to know what I’ll be doing tomorrow, and next week. It’s nice to be sure there will be food and a place to sleep. It’s nice to not be fighting for my life every day.”

“You can say that again.” Sandor gave a rumbling sigh. “This will be the first Day of the Father I’ve even celebrated for years.”

Jaime blinked his eyes open, and craned his neck to look over at Sandor. “Day of the Father?”

Sandor’s shaggy head, blurry through the steam, turned to face him. “It’s tomorrow. Some of ‘em are doing gifts and everything. Jorah’s making a cake, though he says he’s never made one before, so that might be a bloody waste of flour.”

“I didn’t realise,” Jaime said. Had that much time really passed? He’d lost track of the days on the journey here. 

“Maybe you’ll even get something,” Sandor said, and hauled himself up to standing with a loud stream of water. “Better get ready for dinner.”

Jaime stood as well, reaching for his towel. He quickly dried himself and got dressed, and turned to follow Sandor back up the stairs, when he froze in his tracks. Bronn was there, hurrying past, quickly shedding his remaining clothes, and with nothing on he walked straight past Jaime to the nearest bath.

“Fuckin’ cold out there today,” he said, sinking into the water. Jaime was still struggling to process  _ shoulders, legs, chest, cock  _ and had to force himself to stop staring and pick up the towel he’d dropped. He made for the stairs, where Sandor was grinning at him. 

“What?” Jaime asked automatically.

“Maybe you  _ will _ get something you like for Day of the Father, Lannister,” he said, smirking.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Jaime mumbled.

Sandor just laughed. They reached the top of the stairs and joined the rest of the group for dinner, sitting around the table. Sandor took the first spare seat and only two were remaining, one next to Tyrion and one across the other side of the table. Jaime made his way around the table; he knew sitting next to his brother wasn’t likely to end well. Before he reached the spare seat, though, Tyrion spoke up.

“Yes, best move away, brother. Wouldn’t want me to spoil your night before the Day of the Father.”

“Well, you killed our actual father, so I don’t suppose you can spoil much more,” Jaime shot back automatically.

To his surprise, Tyrion jumped to his feet, the chair toppling over behind him.

“What do you want, an apology?”

Jaime turned to face him. The others were all watching. “An apology for throwing the rescue I planned right back in my face, yes, that would be nice. You know how many people you put at risk with that stunt, including me?”

“Oh, I’m so terribly sorry for putting your  _ good reputation  _ at risk, that’s of course the last thing I wanted to do,” Tyrion spat back.

Jaime knew there was no purpose to this argument, but he couldn’t stop the words spilling out. “Varys never wanted to flee, do you realise that? You forced him to, and we lost our spymaster because of that. I can’t even count how many disasters were the consequence of that.” 

“You think I care?” Tyrion shouted.

“Well I cared! I cared about you, and you never cared about me! You could never see beyond your own problems for one second—”

“My own  _ problems? _ I should have left years earlier, because I spent my entire life trying to contribute to the family, only to have every single thing thrown back in my face. I saved King’s Landing from Stannis Baratheon’s fleet— that was  _ me _ — but did I get any credit for it? Nothing. In fact I was treated worse after that, if that was even possible. A grand scheme by our beloved father to end in my death with his hands clean. I never— get off!”

Jorah had laid a hand on Tyrion’s shoulder, trying to pull him aside. Tyrion shoved him ineffectually away. Jaime took the opportunity to jump in.

“You’re blind if you can’t see the real reasons you were never given more responsibility. You say you hated being treated like a lesser man, but you played up to that expectation at every opportunity! If you really wanted to be taken seriously, why did you spend so much time drinking and whoring? You’ve said yourself, you’re capable of a lot more, a capable commander, a leader—why didn’t you show any of that any earlier? You deliberately acted the fool for thirty years just to annoy everyone around you on purpose. You think you’re so smart but that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard—”

Hands around Jaime’s arms. He cut off; he hadn’t realised how loudly he was yelling.

“C’mon, Jaime, let’s go cool off.” A voice in his ear. Bronn, his hair still damp from the bath, was pulling him away from Tyrion. Jorah was doing the same to his brother. Bronn maneuvered him out the front door, into the courtyard. It was snowing.

“I don’t need to cool off, he was the one who started it—”

“I know,” Bronn said calmly, closing the door behind them. “Just come on, anyway.”

He jerked his chin toward the stables. Jaime sighed and followed him.

Once they were inside the stables with the door closed to the freezing air behind them, Jaime kicked the wall, causing the horses nearby to jump. “Tyrion can go and jump off the cliff for all I care,” he said, and reached over to run a hand over his mare’s nose apologetically.

“Aye, he's being a little shit,” Bronn said.

“Thought you would've been on his side,” Jaime muttered.

“Why?”

“You knew him first, and longer. You're  _ his  _ friend.”

Bronn cocked his head at him. “Is that so?” he asked mildly. “Why’m I standing here then, I wonder?”

Jaime turned his back to Bronn to walk along the stalls. “What, so you don't agree with him?”

“About killing his own father? No, general thinking is that murder isn't the best solution to family problems.”

Jaime rolled his eyes, pausing to pull a strip of flaking paint from a beam. “Since when do you care about general thinking?”

“True.” In Jaime’s peripheral vision, Bronn shrugged. “Sometimes murder is a great solution.”

“Then why are you here instead of with him?” Jaime growled bitterly.

“Hmm,” Bronn mused. “Well, you're prettier, I guess.”

“That's not a reason,” Jaime said, annoyed Bronn wasn’t taking him seriously.

“Isn't it?”

“And I'm not  _ pretty _ .”

“Bet your arse you are. Never seen prettier in my life.”

Jaime looked over at him, wondering what this was—was Bronn  _ flirting? _ But Bronn had his back turned, patting Jaime’s mare on the nose. Jaime wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Before he could figure it out, Bronn turned back for the door.

“Come on, I’m hungry. Let’s get some food; if Tyrion is still down there we’ll take it up to the room.”

 

Tyrion wasn’t there, but neither was almost anyone else. The serving dish was still on the table, so they took a helping each and quickly demolished it. Then they went upstairs to bed.

Jaime rolled his shoulder around after he changed into his sleeping tunic. Bronn raised his eyebrows at him and Jaime shook his head. 

“It’s nothing, I just wrenched it today.”

He climbed into bed, and was surprised to feel Bronn climbing in after him.

“You don’t have to—” he said reluctantly.

“It worked last night,” Bronn cut him off, putting a hand on his sore shoulder and rubbing a few times. Jaime gave up any resistance, melting under Bronn’s hand. After a minute, Bronn turned to snuff that candle and let his arm flop over Jaime’s waist, and Jaime was asleep within minutes.

 

This time, Bronn was still there in the morning. He was warm against Jaime’s back, and it felt wonderful. Jaime waited for several long seconds to check if Bronn was awake or not, but his breathing was slow and steady; he seemed to be asleep. That was the only reason Jaime let himself shift and arch back against him, unable to hold in the small sound of pleasure that escaped his throat. He stilled immediately when Bronn’s hand splayed and pressed firmly against his stomach.

“Stop that,” Bronn murmured. He didn’t even sound sleepy. They both lay frozen in place for several seconds. Then Bronn released some of the pressure on Jaime’s stomach, and instead brushed his fingers along Jaime’s ribs, in a motion that could almost be considered accidental. Jaime let out a shaky breath. Bronn did it again. 

Jaime’s heart was racing. He wondered if Bronn could feel it. The unspoken exchange between them was like lightning. 

Jaime leaned back, ever so slightly. The shift of their sleeping clothes against each other was enough to tell him that Bronn was hard. Feeling that against his arse sent a thrill through Jaime. He wanted to press himself hard up against Bronn, to rub against him— 

But then, in one swift movement, Bronn pushed back the covers and got to his feet.

Jaime flopped over onto his back, looking up at him in confusion. What had just happened?

“C’mon,” Bronn said. “Breakfast.”

Jaime took his time getting up, making a pathetic attempt to hide his own erection. Bronn didn’t even bother trying, just stripped his clothes off to quickly change, giving Jaime a brief glimpse out of the corner of his eye of an impressively large cock that sent an unexpected ache straight through Jaime’s arse.

He followed Bronn downstairs, eyeing with suspicion the small bag Bronn was carrying with him. Instead of going all the way to the kitchen, they went to the parlour one floor down. Jaime hadn’t been aware of this plan, but everyone was already there. Alet passed them each a drink from a tray—mulled wine—as they arrived. Someone had made an attempt to brighten the room with makeshift decorations; pine branches twirled in wreaths, and red fabric hanging from the doorframe. The fire was crackling and everyone seemed cheerful. 

Jaime followed Bronn over to a spare couch. It sunk down in the middle, pressing their thighs together. After a few sips of the wine, Jaime didn’t even care.

“It’s strong,” he commented. Especially on an empty stomach and first thing in the morning.

“It’s tradition,” Bronn replied dismissively. 

Jaime looked up as Marta approached them. She had a pile of hemp-wrapped bundles in the crook of her arm, and she selected one to pass to Bronn. Jaime’s heart sunk slightly as he realised others were exchanging gifts as well. He didn’t have a single thing to give to anyone, and he doubted he’d receive anything. He arranged an expression of polite interest as he watched Bronn open his gift, which was a newly-forged knife hilt.

“It’s from me and Bes and Sandor,” Marta said. “If you have a knife that needs a new handle, I’ll put it on that one.”

“Thank you,” Bronn said, testing the handle grip. “It has a good weight.”

“You’re welcome.”

Jaime expected her to turn and go, but instead she fished out another bundle from the pile and passed it to Jaime. 

“Happy Day of the Father.”

Jaime took it tentatively. “Thank you,” he said. “I didn’t get you anything…”

“No one expects you to get anyone a gift, you’ve only just arrived,” she said dismissively. “Open it.”

Jaime unwrapped the hemp and found a small fresh-forged candle holder, with an intricate leaf design on the edge. “Did you really make this?” he asked, impressed.

“Bes did the design,” Marta smiled.

“You’d give the King’s Landing smiths a run for their money,” Jaime said, and Marta beamed.

Bronn reached down to the bag he brought, pulling out some packages of his own. He patted Jaime on the knee absently as he got up to go pass them around. 

Jaime watched him go, wondering again what exactly was happening between them, when someone else walked over to him. It was Tyrion.

Jaime tried—and failed—to sit up straighter on the sagging couch. Tyrion stopped in front of him and fixed his gaze on the floor. 

“Happy Day of the Father,” he said, and thrust his hand out toward Jaime. Hesitantly, Jaime reached out his left hand, and Tyrion dropped something in his palm. “I took it, after… It was just impulsive. At first I planned to sell it, but I didn’t. I thought you would like it,” he said sullenly.

Jaime looked more closely at the thing, and his eyes widened when he realised what it was. It was his mother’s ring, the one Tywin had worn ever since she died, but couldn’t be found after Tywin’s death. Jaime had felt genuinely sorry that the red and gold ring with the lion figure had not been found, but had never suspected that Tyrion had taken it. The brief flare of annoyance was quelled immediately when he glanced up at his brother’s face. He saw grief there.

“Thank you,” Jaime said, and the words were starting to sound less strange in his own voice. 

“Welcome,” Tyrion mumbled, and turned to go. 

Jaime slid the ring onto his finger, maneuvering it with his thumb, and swallowed hard against the tightness in his throat. He took another gulp of the wine.

Bronn returned, wedging himself back into the seat next to Jaime.

“Alright?” he asked, eyeing Tyrion across the room, and Jaime just nodded. His shoulder was still aching. He winced and reached his left hand over to his right shoulder to rub feebly at it. 

“Still sore?” Bronn asked.

Jaime nodded. Bronn casually lifted his arm up and over Jaime’s shoulders, and pushed his hand away, taking over at rubbing. Almost immediately, he found the crackly knot, digging his thumb in. Jaime groaned and sagged against him.

“Gods, that’s good,” he moaned, his eyes squeezed shut. Bronn rubbed at the knot for several minutes, getting his hand inside Jaime’s collar and directly on his skin. He continued until the knot started to break up and stopped hurting so bad, but he didn’t move his hand back. His motions transitioned from firm rubbing to gently brushing his fingers along Jaime’s skin.

Marta knew how to play the flute, and she set up to play some tunes. Everyone was assembled around the couches and on the floor. No one was looking at them. Jaime felt sleepy and relaxed, the wine warming his blood. Bronn’s fingers were now brushing up and down the side of his throat, then along his jaw. Jaime let his head sag onto Bronn’s shoulder. Bronn turned his head, so that his face pressed against Jaime’s hair. Jaime didn’t think he’d mistaken these signals. Tentatively, he lifted his left hand and rested it on Bronn’s thigh. 

To Jaime’s dismay, Bronn jumped in response, and his hand withdrew, and he was getting to his feet.  _ Fuck, fuck, fuck,  _ Jaime said in his head. He’d misread it. 

But Bronn reached out a hand to pull Jaime to his feet. 

“Got a gift for you, too,” he said. “C’mon, I’ll show you.”

Confused, he followed Bronn back out to the spiral staircase. Bronn started up the stairs, and Jaime followed him, then three steps up he stopped, turned, and pushed Jaime against the wall. Then he kissed him.

Jaime groaned in relief. Bronn grinned and shushed him, one hand cupping the back of Jaime’s head and the other wrapping around the small of his back, pulling Jaime against him. Jaime got a grip on Bronn’s tunic with his left hand, pulling him closer, and opened his mouth willingly for Bronn’s tongue. 

“Been wanting to do that a long time,” Bronn growled in his ear, breaking away for a moment to kiss Jaime’s neck.

Jaime couldn’t form any response aside from a moan. Bronn caught the sound quickly with his lips back on Jaime’s, his hand running down to squeeze Jaime’s arse.

“When you two are done, there’s cake.”

They both froze at the voice and turned to look. Arry was leaning out of the doorframe, looking them up and down with an amused grin.

“Er, right,” Bronn managed, and took a step back from Jaime. Arry nodded and returned to the parlour. 

The idea of being discovered made Jaime’s stomach swoop, but in truth nothing had happened. Arry didn’t seem to care, and he supposed the rest of the group knew what they were doing as well.

Bronn smiled at him. “Later,” he promised.

Jaime nodded, still breathless, and followed him back in for cake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's it! My late Christmas fic. I know I rated it E because I planned to get a sex scene in there somewhere, but in the end it didn't really work with the pacing. Let me know if you'd be interested in a smutty part 3, I could probably be convinced to put something together if anyone is interested :)


	3. Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A smutty part 3, as requested :)

After the morning’s celebrations, everyone returned to the minimum amount of work required for the day. For Jaime, that meant the regular amount of work—all the horses needed to be lunged every day, no matter what—but he didn’t mind. He had to remind himself to not constantly grin the rest of the day, after his cheek muscles started to hurt.

He was disappointed he would have to wait until the evening to see Bronn, and even more disappointed when Bronn wasn’t back in time for dinner with the others. Jaime went up to bed after the meal, like usual, and hoped Bronn would turn up shortly after. However, Jaime was fast asleep with all the candles still lit when Bronn finally returned, waking him as the door clicked closed.

“Whassa time?” Jaime mumbled, looking over at Bronn through blurry vision. 

Bronn quickly shed his outer layers and climbed into bed next to Jaime. “Sorry I’m late,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep.”

 

The next morning, Bronn was gone when Jaime woke. Jaime was disappointed, and looked forward hopefully to that night when Bronn was in time for dinner. However, when they went up to bed, Bronn just kissed him once before snuffing the candle and rolling over, snoring within seconds.

 

This pattern continued for another day. Jaime was starting to feel less disappointed, and more frustrated. He didn’t understand why Bronn didn’t want to do any more than just kiss him, especially since he was pretty sure the ex-sellsword wasn’t usually hesitant when it came to  sex.

 

On the third day, Jaime tried not to sleep too deeply. It was a technique he’d thoroughly perfected on the journey here, only dozing for short stretches and never falling into a deeper sleep. He pushed the blankets off his legs and kept his feet cold all night; that always helped. Then, he woke to the dim dawn light growing in the room and the mattress shifting slightly as Bronn tried to slide carefully out. Jaime came fully awake and threw his left hand out, grabbing Bronn by the tunic.

“Go back to sleep,” Bronn murmured, trying to gently push Jaime’s hand away. Jaime gripped even tighter, and slid back to sit up in the bed.

“Jaime—”

“Why do you always go?” Jaime demanded.

“To work,” Bronn said slowly.

Jaime shook his head. “I mean, why do you always only just kiss me? Why don’t you want to… you know.” He felt his ears heating up, but didn’t drop his gaze from Bronn’s eyes. 

Bronn frowned. Jaime expected him to say something about how he wasn’t really interested in Jaime that way, or he thought Jaime would be no good in bed, or— 

“I didn’t want to scare you off,” Bronn said carefully, tilting his head. “I assumed you’d never done this before, I thought you’d rather take it slow…” His frown grew slowly into a grin. “But I’m guessing this means you don’t want to take it too slow?”

“Yes. I mean no. I mean—”

Bronn stopped Jaime’s babbling with a kiss, shifting his body back around and then pushing at Jaime’s shoulders until he flopped back on the bed. Bronn kept close all the way down, his thigh pressing between Jaime’s legs and his chest pushing Jaime down into the mattress. He kissed deeply, and Jaime groaned as Bronn brushed a hand lightly down his side and through his hair.

When Bronn drew back for a moment, Jaime caught his breath and said. “I said  _ not  _ slow.”

Bronn’s eyebrows shot up. “Alright, princess, we can do it that way.”

He sat up, hooked his fingers into Jaime’s pants and tugged them down. Jaime lifted his hips, kicking them off, and started on his tunic until Bronn took over, tugging it up. He sat up so Bronn could pull it over his head, then Bronn knelt back for a short moment, quickly getting rid of his own clothes.

Jaime could feel sweat breaking out on the back of his neck.  _ This  _ was what he wanted. His cock already felt ready to shoot a load, and it hadn’t even been touched yet.

Bronn hooked his arms under Jaime’s thighs and tugged him down the bed and into the center, then reached for the table between the two beds.

“You done this before?” he asked.

“A long time ago,” Jaime breathed. Bronn opened the drawer and pulled out a jar that looked like it had come from the kitchen. It was a quarter full with some kind of oil.

“Yeah? With who?”

“Erm,” Jaime was struggling to focus as he watched Bronn pour the oil carefully on his fingers. “A stableboy, when I was young. And another squire, one time.”

“Before you started getting it on with your sister?” Bronn asked, lifting Jaime’s left leg up over his shoulder.

Jaime looked at the wall. “I’d rather not talk about her, while we…”

“Right, sorry,” Bronn said quickly. “Hey. Look here.”

Jaime looked back as Bronn pushed his right leg out wide, his knee over the edge of the mattress. His right hand was glistening with oil. 

“I’m gonna fuck you open with my hand,” Bronn said smugly, and Jaime’s stomach turned over. “That okay?”

“Yes,” Jaime breathed, and held his breath as Bronn stroked a finger down his crack, spreading oil around the inside of his cheeks and then circling his hole. 

It had been so long ago that Jaime could barely remember what it was like. He knew it had hurt the first few times, but then he’d got used to it, and then he’d really liked it. He couldn’t even remember the name of the boy who’d taught him. He’d been a few years older, and he’d had dark hair and eyes. If Cersei hadn’t… Jaime pushed that thought away. He didn’t want to think about Cersei now.

Bronn was still stroking at the outside of his hole. While that felt nice, he needed more.

“Bronn—”

“Alright, alright. It’s just you’re still holding your breath, love.” Bronn said. Jaime focussed on him, and Bronn was watching his face intently. “Breathe,” Bronn urged. Jaime did as he said, and Bronn pushed his finger in. 

“That’s it,” he said. “You wanted it quick and dirty, right? You have to be pretty relaxed for that to work.”

Jaime focussed on relaxing his muscles, and on all the vaguely familiar feelings Bronn was eliciting. He knew the best bit was coming, when— there. He threw his right arm over his eyes as Bronn pressed against the spot inside him. This was what he’d been missing all these years. It was an amazing feeling.

Despite what he’d said, Bronn refused to rush. Jaime couldn’t tell exactly what he was doing, but Bronn was gradually adding more fingers and stretching further, though Jaime didn’t feel much stretch. It just felt nice.

“Bronn, I can take more,” he said after several minutes of careful stretching.

“Oh, I know you can.”

“Then do it, I’m ready.”

“You’ll be ready when I say you’re ready,” Bronn growled, giving Jaime butterflies again. He did something that increased the pressure—perhaps he’d added another finger—and Jaime gasped at the sudden stretching feeling. “You like that?” Bronn asked.

Jaime nodded, unable to respond. He was so ready for it, he didn’t care if it hurt, he just wanted to feel Bronn’s cock. 

Finally, after what felt like hours, Bronn withdrew. Jaime lifted his arm, watching as he reached for more oil and coated his cock. 

“Ready?”

_ “Yes,”  _ Jaime said, desperate. He prepared for stretching and pain as Bronn hoisted Jaime’s arse up onto his thighs and eased his cock in. To his surprise, it didn’t hurt at all. It just felt warm and as though there were a hundred tiny places that never normally got touched that lit up with pleasure as Bronn’s cock slid past, and when it pressed on Jaime’s spot, he groaned.

“The whole place’ll know what we’re up to,” Bronn grinned, looking more proud than anxious.

“I don’t care,” Jaime breathed. “Harder.”

Bronn picked up the pace, sliding back and forth. Jaime felt so alive with sensation, he thought he could feel every bit of Bronn’s cock as it moved. It slid so easy, like it was made for it. Even easier than Jaime ever remembered his own cock sliding into a cunt.

“Feel alright?” Bronn asked. Jaime opened his eyes to focus on him again. Sweat was rolling down his face, and he looked concerned.

“So good,” Jaime managed. He couldn’t think of anything more descriptive. “Harder,” he urged again.

Bronn hitched Jaime’s leg up over his shoulder, and reached around to grasp his cock, pumping in time with his thrusts. He was slamming hard into Jaime now, each time pushing Jaime closer to the edge.

“Bronn,” he groaned as he came.

Bronn followed shortly after, pressing his face against Jaime’s thigh, breathing hard.

After a moment, he pulled out. His seed leaked out of Jaime’s arse straight onto the sheet, but Jaime couldn’t bring himself to try to stop it or find a towel. He rolled over as Bronn flopped down next to him, pressing his face into Bronn’s shoulder. 

“How was that, ey? Quick enough for ya?” Bronn said into his hair.

“More practice,” Jaime panted, still struggling to form full sentences. “More practice to improve our time.”

“Oh, I see,” Bronn said, a smile in his voice. “We’d better practice every day then, at least.”

They both looked up as someone suddenly thumped on the door.

“Are you done yet?” came Jorah’s slightly annoyed voice. “Your breakfast is getting cold.”

Jaime couldn’t help laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it! :D


End file.
